


Urge for the Going

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Established Relationship, Futurefic, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-12-09
Updated: 2002-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 04:59:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/352188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark and Lex and 500 miles of blacktop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Urge for the Going

**Author's Note:**

> One of the first graphs of Hunter S. Thompson's "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" served as the template for the introduction. This fic would not exist without the influences of the films "Thelma and Louise", "Y Tu Mama Tambien" and the quintessential Clex Roadtrip fic, Jenn's gorgeous "Sleep While I Drive". The title is taken from Joni Mitchell's song of the same name. I think that covers everything...and big hugs to Chicklet Girl for the timely and helpful beta. 

## Urge for the Going

by Jordan

[]()

* * *

* * *

We left in such a rush I didn't even think about how much cash we'd need. I only had about $70 on me, almost half of which was already spent on extremely caffeinated beverages and other stimulants. The backseat looked like a mobile diabetic crash kit. We had four bottles of Cherry Coke, a bag of Twizzlers, about a hundred Pixie Stix, several packets of Kool-Aid mix and a galaxy of multi-colored Skittles, Sweet Tarts, M &M's, Starburst... and also a sixer of Red Bull, several liters of Evian, a quart of Pineapple juice and about two dozen Claritin. It was allergy season. 

A Friday night in mid-May, to be exact. We were were sharing a particularly comfortable couch in my home theater, watching Lord of the Rings special features for what seemed like the seventh night in a row, when Clark slid down onto the Moroccan rug in a languid heap and proclaimed his utter boredom. 

"God, there's nothing to do in this town." 

They may have been the most unoriginal words ever spoken, but they were true. It was roughly 11:30 p.m. and any place we could have gone - and there weren't many - was closed. We'd already had sex (quick, fumbling, just killing time, really) and I might have suggested we do it again, but the couch was very comfortable and I didn't feel like moving. 

"We have to get out of here." Clark was lying on his back, his legs bent at the knees and resting on the cushion beside me. 

"Where do you want to go?" 

I had, at the time, several vices, not the least of which was indulging Clark in just about anything he wanted. There were many places we could have gone, apartments, houses, hotel rooms on all corners of the globe, all at my disposal with a quick phone call and a few easy arrangements. 

I was hoping, however, that lying on the Moroccan rug with his feet on my couch would end up being his destination of choice. 

"Somewhere. Not here." 

I began listing off the locales, in order of closest proximity. Metropolis? Too noisy. Coast City? Too big. Paris. Cairo. Cape Town. 

"I just want to go someplace quiet and strange and not. Here." Clark punctuated the last two words by dropping his fist to his forehead. 

I wasn't sure that it got much quieter than a farm town in the middle of fucking Kansas, but I just "hmm"-ed and pretended to think. 

"Oh wait..." 

He said it so quietly I almost didn't hear him, but then I saw the smile slowly spreading across his face like ripples on a pond and realized I was in for a long and potentially humiliating night. The last time Clark smiled like that I wound up learning how to line-dance. 

And like a hypoglycemic child in a candy store, he was on his feet and zooming around my house, dragging me up to my bedroom and rifling through my closet, looking for "stuff that can get dirty". 

"Clark?" I sat on the bed trying not to sound too curious. 

"My uncle from Kansas City has this lake cabin and we used to go there in the summer sometimes. It's so cool, it's like, straight out of the '50's or something. The lake is really pretty and peaceful and you can, like, smell the oxygen, it's so clean." 

He threw a pair of New Balances in my lap. I raised my left eyebrow, the universal symbol for "and what would your parents say about this?" 

"They're doing the Peace Corps til next summer anyway, so no one's using it. My aunt and uncle, I mean. And I'm sure my parents won't care as long as I promise to leave the place like we found it and drive safe and everything." 

Driving safe is big with the Kents. I raised my other eyebrow. 

"Lex, they didn't see us that night, I promise. My dad hasn't made a weird face when I mention your name in, like, months." 

A few months prior, I was giving Clark some particularly loud head in the Kents' living room when they came home unexpectedly early from a dinner party. He zipped up and scooted to the far side of the couch as soon as he heard the door, but I'm convinced somebody saw something. It was true Clark's parents had lightened up considerably in the years I'd known him, but I had my doubts they'd support him taking off in the middle of the night for a weekend all alone with me. 

By the time he'd packed a small bag for me (containing, I later found out, two pairs of boxers I never wore, a pair of very expensive jeans, one dark gray fitted tee and no socks) and was deciding which car we should take, I had started to warm up to the idea. It was a pretty slow time of year and I was beginning to feel the same restless energy humming under my skin too. The urge to go, get away, forget myself. And if anyone could convince me to actually do it, Clark could. 

It was one of the more spontaneous things I'd done since that little jaunt to Rio when I was still in college. Charlie Panzen was his ridiculous name and if I'd known he had no intention of letting me fuck him, I wouldn't have gone. I missed four mid-terms for that pricktease and I can't even remember if I had fun. Which probably means I had monumental amounts of fun, I just wish we had brought a camera. 

Clark was having a difficult time deciding on a car, so I grabbed the bag from him, threw the cover off the MG Roadster and backed it out. We drove to his house, where he packed a bag for himself and I explained the plan to his mother. His dad was already asleep. Martha reiterated what a terrible idea she thought it was, taking off so late like that. Clark managed to convince her that he wouldn't let me fall asleep at the wheel and that - this, I thought, was genius - since he'd been so little trouble to them all through high school, no pregnancies or drug problems or petty theft, he'd earned a little time off the leash. He'd be on his own in three months, after all. 

What is it with mothers and guilt trips? They can dish 'em out, but they really can't take them. 

Martha caved like a J.Lo marriage. She wrote directions for us in very large, clear letters and quickly packed a loaf of bread, peanut butter, dried apricots and some bananas in a fruit crate. When she told us, in a warm half-whisper, to "have fun, guys", the wistful sincerity in her voice was all Clark. Secretly, I cheered every aspect of her that turned up in him. Not that I didn't like Mr. Kent, but if Clark was going to take after one of them, I preferred it be the one who baked me cookies and absentmindedly called me 'sweetie' sometimes. 

We stuffed the food box and Clark's red duffel bag (containing, I later found out, three pairs of soft, worn jeans, four t-shirts in various primary colors, two pairs of blue plaid boxers and enough white athletic socks to last both of us a week), stopped at the all-night Shell station to load up on sugar and caffeine and hit the road. I was still wearing the khaki chinos and sky-blue crew neck sweater I'd worn to work that day. 

* * *

It was all interstate for the first couple hours. We chatted about school and friends and college, his favorite new band and books I thought he should read. I stopped at a McDonald's, its enormous neon arches like a signal fire in the wilderness, and bought some coffee at the drive-through. Clark wanted fries. He licked his salty fingers and sang along to Weezer songs. 

"Tell me about the lake." I was anxious to get there. 

"It's wet." Loveable smartass. I rolled my eyes. 

"Why are we going there, Clark?" 

"My uncle taught me to waterski once. Sometimes we had bonfires at night and burned all the branches and sticks that fell out of the trees." 

I looked over at him and smiled; he was staring out the windshield, lost in free association. 

"He cooked everything on the grill and my dad drank beer out of a bottle in a Coozie. My cousins were grown up. I was usually the only kid. I used to walk along the shore looking for sea glass - you know what that is?" 

I nodded. 

"I remember a lot of sitting on the dock just staring at the waves. It's sort of hypnotic." 

"So are you." 

"Ha," he snorted. "Yeah." 

Suddenly, he moved over onto his side, facing me, and gently placed his warm hand on my thigh. He leaned in and kissed the corner of my right eye. 

"Thanks for driving. Are you getting tired?" 

"I'm fine, Clark." 

Actually, the combined effects of the caffeine, sugar and the vibration of my leather seat from the soft rumble of the engine were making me horny as hell. But Clark had issues with road head and I wasn't even thinking about suggesting it. 

"Lex, you know I want to," he began, apparently reading my mind. He slapped my thigh twice, platonically. "But we both know what happens when you get distracted. Is that how you want to die?" 

"There are worse ways to go." 

"Yeah, well... Just let me know when you want me to take over." 

"I'm fine, Clark," I repeated. I turned my head to find him stifling a grin. 

"...I'm really that good at it?" 

"Good?" I chuckled. "Clark, I'm tempted to revise the terms of the LexCorp Merit Scholarship to include 'Cocksucking Aptitude'. That's how 'good' you are." 

"Doesn't that give me an unfair advantage over lesbians and straight guys?" 

"Anyone's welcome to apply. Speaking of that, why haven't I seen your essay yet?" 

He furrowed his eyebrows and looked at me like I'd just asked him why he wasn't paying for gas. 

"You're making me apply?" 

* * *

Half a bag of Twizzlers (red twists slipping in and out of his full, wet lips) and two bottles of Cherry Coke later, we needed gas and a restroom. On the outskirts of Lawrence we found a huge, sprawling truck stop. Semi-trucks dotted the parking lot and yellow, fluorescent light flooded the flat, Kansas plain for miles. 

I filled up the tank, squinting in the floodlights and stretching my legs, while Clark ran inside to pee. And I mean ran. I imagined him standing there, head fallen back on his shoulders and groaning in painful release. 

Inside, I found him in the candy aisle. 

"Clark," I said, resting my elbow on some Trident, "don't you think we're set for candy?" 

He just picked a sucker out of cardboard box and tapped it against his lips. 

"You want a sucker?" 

He raised his eyebrows, waved the sucker in front of his mouth more exaggeratedly and tilted his head toward the men's room. I shook my head in bewilderment for a second before I noticed the sucker's label. Blow Pop. 

Clark dropped it back in the box and began slowly walking backward to the restroom, grinning wickedly. Half hard by the time we passed the fountain soda, I followed him. We didn't break eye contact 'til he turned around to lock the door and shoved me up against the scratched Formica sink. 

He kissed me, deep and aggressive, pushing his tongue far inside before I'd really even opened my mouth. I caught his bottom lip between my teeth, alternating biting and licking. He hooked his fingers under the waist of my pants and pulled our hips together, straining cocks jutting against each other through tightened fabric. I slipped my hands down the curve of his back to cup his ass, perfect in red-label Levi's, but he reached back, gripped my hands in his and placed them on the ledge of the counter. 

"Hang on." 

His eyes burned black in the dim light. He dropped to his knees and expertly unfastened my pants, tugging them down on my thighs. My erection bobbed out in front of his face. I leaned back against the sink and stared up at the ceiling tile, one thought in my head: 

Clark. Make me come. 

Hot, wet mouth surrounded me, insane and too much. I let out a strangled high-pitched wail and he sucked me faster, no warm-up or announcement, just him. Just his endless, tight throat and flickering tongue and puffy lips taking all of me. 

He moaned around my cock, muffled and choked. Spit dripped down my shaft and slicked his hand as he jacked me off, heavenly back-and-forth of soft mouth and firm fist. I came quick and hard, pounding out the pulses with my palm against the counter ledge. It hurt. God, it fuckin' hurt and I loved it. 

Clark leaned back on his heels, grinning smugly. He traced his thumb along his lower lip and swallowed. 

"Your come tastes like coffee." 

I tucked myself back into my pants and buttoned them before pulling him up to his feet. 

"I want to suck you." 

"That's okay," he snickered, reaching beyond me to snatch a paper towel from the wall-mounted dispenser. He ran one under the faucet, wrung it out and cleaned a small puddle of semen off his blue t-shirt. 

"How did you... Christ, you're coordinated." 

"It's a gift." 

He wadded up the paper towel and threw it in the garbage. Then, with a satisfied sigh, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. 

"Well? Should we hit it?" 

On the way out, I bought a sour apple Blow Pop and sucked on it all the way to the Missouri border. For years following, I'd randomly find the brightly colored candy on top of status reports, placed carefully on the seats of expensive office chairs or stuck behind a windshield wiper, and remember. 

I let Clark drive the rest of the way. 

* * *

I tried very hard not to fall asleep. The blurry strip of yellow dividing the two-lane highway was spellbinding and I had trouble keeping my eyes open. I wasn't worried about Clark; he seemed to have a limitless supply of energy back then. But I felt a friendly obligation to stay awake and keep him company. 

So I checked and re-checked the map against Martha's directions. It felt like we'd been on the same road forever; I was sure we'd missed an exit. 

"About two more hours, Lex." 

He said it like two hours was nothing, like his legs weren't cramped and his ass wasn't sore. Like he wasn't fantasizing about a king-size pillow-top mattress, a soft down comforter and hours of deep, dreamless sleep. 

"You wanna hear more about the lake?" 

"Sure." I sat up straighter in my seat. 

"If we had more people, we'd play Hearts before we went to bed. Or 500. I bet we'd take all the tricks again." 

The previous winter, the Kents had invited me over for dinner, after which Martha insisted I learn to play 500. Jonathan made the mistake of letting Clark and me be on the same team and they were both floored when we beat them in one hand. 

"It's probably too cold to swim, but we can paddle-boat," he went on. 

"Yeah," I snickered. "I'm getting in a paddle boat with you." 

"You wouldn't get that wet," he smiled. "And I'd let you steer." 

"What else?" 

"Um...I don't know. We can throw the Frisbee around and go for walks. I'll catch a frog for you." 

"A frog. I have the best boyfriend ever." 

In the lull in conversation that followed, I discovered, for whatever misplaced nostalgic reason, that I really did want to see Clark catch a frog. 

"Hey," he said, after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "Did you ever wish you had braces?" 

"As in corrective oral -" 

"Yeah, you know, braces." He looked over at me, lips spread apart to reveal a perfect row of clenched, white teeth. 

"Can't say I did, Clark." 

I reached into the back seat for a can of Red Bull. If the conversation was taking a turn for the absurd, I decided I'd need more than good posture to stay alert. 

"I did. Pete had them in seventh grade. I was jealous of him." 

"You were jealous of lucky Pete and his mouth full of tight, jagged metal?" 

"I thought they looked cool," he said. "And plus, everybody had them. Like now, everyone's getting their wisdom teeth out. I don't know if I even have wisdom teeth." 

"Aww, poor Clark." I patted his shoulder condescendingly. "I could repeatedly hit you in the jaw with a meat tenderizer, if you think it would make you feel better." 

"It wouldn't be the same," he sighed regretfully. 

"Besides," I shifted in my seat to strike a decidedly sexy pose. "I thought you'd given up on fitting in." 

"Yeah, no thanks to you," he fake-pouted. "And I was so close." 

"Well, look at it this way," I consoled him. "When you get to college there will be literally hundreds of other guys who spent high school pretending to like sports and masking their sexuality behind unrequited love for the beautiful, pure, unattainable -" 

"Hey, I do like sports." 

"Yeah, you read ESPN Magazine for the articles, right, Clark?" 

He rolled his eyes and looked a little embarrassed. I was flattered I could still do that to him. 

"All I'm saying is, you're going to fit right in with the fresh-out-of-the-closet and into-the-gay-bars-set." 

It came out more spiteful than I'd meant it to; the truth was, Clark and I hadn't broached the subject of what would happen that fall and I wasn't looking forward to its inevitable bittersweet pall over our summer together. 

Clark, god bless him, laughed. 

"You think I'm going to go through a slut phase?" 

Well, when he said it like that. 

"I think you're..." I was going to say 'everyone does' or 'I'd understand', but I felt it'd be insulting, somehow. 

"Things will change, Clark. We're going to have to be ready for that." 

Looking patiently at the road, then the speedometer, then back at the road, he reached for my hand in the dark. His fingers were blunt and tough and fit perfectly in the curve of my palm. 

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." 

Sometimes I liked it when he took after Jonathan, too. 

* * *

"Lex." 

I was vaguely aware of a hand on my shoulder, gently shaking me. 

"Hey. We're here." 

The silence was jarring; my ears almost hurt in the absence of the engine noise, the radio, the echo of rubber on asphalt. I rubbed my eyes and sat up quickly, unsure how long I'd slept. I was confused and sweating and felt, oddly, like a fussy child waking from an interrupted nap. 

"You weren't supposed to let me fall asleep." 

"Come on," he whispered. "Come see the lake." 

We were parked in a makeshift driveway, just gravel packed hard into tire grooves in the dirt. I opened my door and stepped out slowly, stretching my arms and then bending down to stretch my legs. The first thing that hit me was the way the air smelled: warm and sweet and clean, like Clark said. To my right was a huge, white structure and expensive patio furniture on a beautifully landscaped lawn. To my left, a nondescript square cabin, cobwebbed vinyl siding on the walls and a rickety wooden porch in front. 

I didn't have to guess which one belonged to the Kents. 

"That used to be a church," Clark said, nodding toward the neighboring house. "It's still got all the original stained glass." 

We carried our luggage and Martha's food inside (the key hung from a nail above the door frame), where Clark flipped several switches while I looked around. The cabin was, in a word, quaint. The furniture was ancient and mismatched, the yellowed wallpaper was peeling off the walls and the stove looked like it had been handed down at least four generations. 

"Isn't this awesome?" Clark's voice came gleefully from the utility closet. 

I explored the two tiny bedrooms next. The carpet was different in each one - a rusty-vomit color in the room labeled 'Kid's Corner' (hand-painted sign on the door) and a blue-green paisley pattern in 'Grandpa and Grandma's Room'. I tried out the bed in the smaller room. The springs creaked and I rolled immediately to the center. 

The other room was much larger. A pile of waterskis, nylon ropes, inflatable inner tubes and air mattresses lined one corner, with the wooden-frame bed, painted white, in another. The bed was just as squeaky as the other one, but at least the mattress was somewhat even. A white chenille comforter with a pink and purple floral pattern covered it, and a red plaid wool blanket was folded at the foot. Above the doorway, I noticed a large wooden ladder, hinged to a square hole in the ceiling and rigged up over the room by a system of cheap-looking pulleys. A loft. Of course. 

"There you are." Clark walked in and bounced down beside me. "Do you have any idea how much sex has been had in this bed?" 

"I really don't need to know that, Clark." 

"My parents, my aunts and uncles, a bunch of my cousins..." 

"Clark -" 

"I'm just sayin'. It's kind of a tradition." 

"Maybe tomorrow." I fell backwards on the bed. "What time is it?" 

"It's time to watch the sunrise with me on the dock. Hurry up or we'll miss it." 

* * *

I followed Clark down the red brick path through the yard, the chirp of crickets and soft wash of water on the shore the only sounds in the thick, dark night. 

"I love that rock." Clark pointed to a flat, oblong stone on the beach as we stepped onto the aluminum dock. 'Well, sure,' I thought, regarding the rock, which struck me as a stoic work of natural art in the moonlight. 'Why wouldn't you?' 

"Watch your step," he called over his shoulder as we walked down the dock, the hollow, tinny sound of our heavy footsteps echoing off the water. 

I sat down on the cracked wooden bench and looked up at more stars than I'd ever seen in my life. Clark lay down on his stomach and tested the water with his hands; I could hear his fingers skim over its soft, tranquil surface. 

"Cold?" I asked. 

"Probably." He stood up and shook his hands, drying them on his jeans. 

"How deep do you think it is?" 

"I don't know, maybe..." he touched the edge of his hand, palm down, to his torso. "Up to here?" 

"You're going to get in, aren't you?" 

He grinned and sat down beside me. "Oh yeah. I might even take a bath in there tomorrow." 

"It is tomorrow." 

"No it's not. Okay, technically, maybe. But the sun's not up yet." 

"Are you sure we're even facing east, Clark? The sky looks pretty black over there." Across the water I could see the dark outline of trees, a few pinpricks of light from houses and rolling fields of crops beyond them. 

"I know I've watched the sun rise from here. Or maybe it was the sunset," he shrugged. "It's pretty though, huh?" 

It was gorgeous. Under the shadowed mantle of night, the lake seemed to stretch on forever, smooth glass reflecting starlight and lapping quietly at the miles of rocky beach. I wanted to jump in, pull Clark with me, make love to him in a tangle of seaweed and naked skin, slip down his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, his legs, and press my mouth to all his dark places. 

"Yes, Clark. It's beautiful." 

He turned to me and smiled under heavy-lidded eyes. I leaned forward and traced a finger down his cheek before moving in to kiss him slowly. As we pulled away I slid an arm around his shoulder. 

"Are you cold? Do you want my sweater?" I asked him, after a few quiet minutes. I guess I was feeling chivalrous. It didn't occur to me that I wasn't wearing anything underneath it. 

"I'm fine. Are you?" 

"I'm - yeah, kinda." I shivered. So much for chivalrous. 

"Here." He unzipped his gray hooded sweatshirt and draped it around my shoulders. I pushed my arms through the sleeves and zipped it up to my throat, wrapping myself in warm, Clark-scented cotton. 

We sat like that for perhaps a half hour, staring at the lake, sleepy observations interjected here and there. 

"Clark. It's Armageddon. The sun is definitely not rising." 

"We can try again tomorrow." He stood up and looked toward the cabin. "Let's go to bed." 

The sky behind the cabin was just starting to turn brighter as we walked back to shore. A light was on in the church house, illuminating a white lamb laying under a cross. I yawned, wide and indulgent, as Clark grabbed the hood of my sweatshirt and quickly pulled it over my eyes. 

"Ha. Hooded you." 

"I let you." 

"Whatever, Lex." 

I don't remember undressing or brushing my teeth or turning down the covers, just the sublime surrender to heavy, patient sleep and Clark's intermittent erection pressed to the small of my back. Clark's arm draped across my chest and his hand searching for mine in the middle of peculiar, forgotten dreams. I remember waking every once in a while to decide I would never wake up again, never leave that creaky, antique bed or the half-naked almost-man sprawled across it, sighing peacefully and taking up too much room. 

Over the next two days, we'd laugh and talk and plan; I'd cook, he'd eat; we'd go for long walks along the gravel road and perfect the art of skipping stones. He'd catch his frog and I'd wish, again, that I had a camera. We'd write our history on the walls of those rooms and into the architecture of memory. 

But then, during those hazy hours between night and day, between spring and summer, between where we were and where we were going - then, we just slept. 

End 


End file.
